Chapter 17 Marcus
MARCUS
My God. What have I done?
Look at her, sitting perfectly still, disbelief marring her expression. The mask does nothing to hide her. I know that face without effort. And with the mask on, she belongs to the moment. To me. This room has held liars, confessions, and rot. But this? This is a different kind of transgression.
I’m not flirting with danger. I’m putting my foundations at risk. One misstep and I unravel everything I’ve spent years becoming.
And still, I remember why I asked her here.
“I heard you were looking for me,” I say as I move closer.
She hasn’t found her words yet. Shock suits her. It strips her down to instinct.
I circle her, taking my time. Her scent reaches me. It’s not cloying, not sweet. She chose it, knowing someone like me would notice. And the dress. Christ. The bare line of her back, the elegant architecture of her spine, every inch of it designed to bring a man to his knees.
I stop beside her and dip low until my lips brush the shell of her ear.
“You were afraid,” I murmur.
She laughs. “Oh, you’re very good. But I should’ve known.”
Then she glances toward the mirrored wall. “Is anyone watching?”
She says it with pride. She has no idea how deeply she’s stepped into this, but she’s not retreating. That much is clear.
“Spectators are the least of your concerns,” I tell her.
Because I don’t share. I’m at the top of the food chain, and no one watches me.
She wets her lips. Whether it’s intention or reflex, I can’t tell from this angle, and that uncertainty skews something in me. Her body is restless now, her legs crossing and uncrossing. The slit in her dress parts just enough to reveal a flash of thigh.
“Now I’m going to unchain you,” I say, sliding the key into the cuff. “But only to do one thing.”
I pause before turning it.
She tilts her head, a smile curling her lips. “Do you trust me? You saw what I did to Snow Fox. I won’t hesitate to do worse to you.”
Ah, poor little Maximilian. I did instruct him to chase her hard, and he paid the price. He’ll live, but boy, I’m going to have fun reminding him about what happened.
I lean in closer, my breath skating across her skin. “You’re going to undress for me.”
I unlock the cuff.
She stands slowly, rolling her wrists, faint red marks blooming where the metal held her.
At my nod, she moves to the far corner. Her arms rise, her hands at her nape. Then, the neckline loosens, and the dress begins to fall.
Her breasts are full and ripe, her nipples hard points. I’ve known beauty, and I’ve known the look of a woman’s want. I’ve played this game longer than I care to admit. But this? This feels like a misstep waiting to happen.
The zipper slides down next. The dress falls, following the curve of her hips, then pools around her ankles, caught for a moment by those lethal heels. She steps out of it like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
Everything in me strains toward her.
Fuck, this is a bad idea!
“Shoes off,” I say, my voice tight.
She slips out of them, one at a time, gracefully. Stilettos carry a reputation for sex appeal, but it isn’t the shoes that undo me. It’s her confidence and the way she stands there unashamed, offering herself. But she is not submitting. She is inviting.
I move closer.
When I unbutton my shirt, she makes a soft sound and presses into me as my chest opens to her warmth. The contact is brief.
But I step back.
It was fucking perfect. So perfect that I want it again. And she knows how to exploit me.
She moves closer again.
“No,” I say, grabbing her wrist. “Not yet.”
She resists and twists. Her hips press to mine, her body arching, her eyes fierce behind the mask.
She doesn’t want to follow the rules.
But she’s far too valuable for me to end this. I must bring her into line.
I take her back to the table and bend her forward over it. The cuffs snap shut again.
“I keep my promises, Midnight,” I tell her. “I said I’d unchain you for only one thing.”
One small pull, and she knows exactly how far she’s allowed to move. “Damn you,” she says, rolling her ass against me as I drape over her to feel her just one more time.
Oh, she likes it.
I step back and shed my shirt, my attention never leaving her.
She isn’t a storm in a teacup. She’s a complication I didn’t plan for.
The danger isn’t that I decided to play the Game with her.
It’s that a part of me wants it to mean something else entirely.
What I plan is what happens in the Game.
Always. But now, ideas that don’t belong inside its rules begin to intrude, vying with what I’m meant to do next.
“Second thoughts?” she asks. “Wolf…”
She has no idea. What I’m feeling for her is wild, too wild that I’m afraid it can’t be contained. But I have an agenda. She must get what she wants, or I won’t get mine, which is her confession.
Time to get to work.
My fingers find my belt, and I loosen my pants before stripping the rest of the way.
Her hips roll, desperate and offering. She probably feels my erection without ever seeing it.
I shove her forward against the table, my arms locking her in with my chest flush to her back, my hips lining up with the curve of her ass. Her breathing falters, and the way her body trembles nearly rips the control out of me.
I take my time, testing, touching, and learning her every shiver and response. She answers without a single word. Just pure need and obedience.
My cock hovers within touching distance of her entrance while I split the condom wrapper. After I sheathe myself, I position my shaft just enough for her to feel it, to know.
She writhes and moans like she’s going to wither if I don’t give it to her soon.
I hook one arm around her waist and lift her hips, tilting her open for me. My fingers slide into the wet heat between her thighs.
Fuck, she’s soaked.
“Already?” I scoff. Heat floods my neck and my face. She’s this ready just because I’m here.
She lifts her chin, audacity reasserted. “Gimme what I asked for.”
Instead of giving her anything, I drag my fingers back up and lick her from them, slow and obscene. She gasps, a hitch in her breath. Music to my ears.
“Have you ever tasted yourself, Midnight?”
She utters a breathless and trembling, “N-no.”
I offer her my fingers. She hesitates, only for a blink, before her mouth opens. Her lips part, and her tongue sweeps. Her mask hides her eyes, but not the hunger.
I plunge back between her legs and gather another slick stroke of her arousal, this time sinking deeper and coating my fingers with more. Then, I offer them again. And again, she opens to me.
“Do you like it?” I ask, my voice rough.
“Yes,” she rasps.
It shreds me…the way she owns her desire. There’s nothing as beautiful as a woman getting off on her own taste because I put it there.
“Now I want yours,” she moans.
I pull my fingers from her mouth and grip my cock, teasing the head, my pre-cum slicking over my palm. Then I offer that to her too.
She takes it in like a damn feast. My body, my wants, she welcomes all of it with more fervor.
“Fuck, Midnight,” I mutter with a sigh. Though I prefer how she was with her own.
But the next stage is waiting.
She’d told me her darkest fantasy. It was untamed, and people have died chasing it. I haven’t decided whether I’ll grant it, but a woman who can reinvent sex on canvas won’t recoil from what I have in mind.
Still draped over her, I let my weight settle until she’s pinned beneath me, her breath shallow and fast. One hand grips her hip and lifts her just enough.
“You know I won’t be gentle,” I murmur, my voice rough.
“I don’t expect you to be.”
Then she gasps as I drive into her with such force that her body spasms, clenches, and tries to keep pace, but she can’t. It doesn’t matter. I don’t let up. I go deeper, harder, and faster, chasing the place that makes her scream.
“Wolf!”
“Keep those pretty legs wide,” I say against her ear, my hips pushing her thighs apart.
She agonizes, “Please.”
“You want me to stop?”
“No,” she pants, “deeper…”
Christ.
That sound obliterates reason. I’ve never held back once I’ve decided, and I’m not fucking starting now.
I slam into her, the table shuddering beneath us. Chains clatter. Her body meets every thrust with a rising pitch, the slap of skin, the scrape of wood, and her moans unraveling into filth and fire.
She’s an erotic artist. A muse magnet. A fantasy girl for men who never stood a goddamn chance.
Tonight’s a game. I know that.
But I don’t want her distracted. I want every fucking man who has ever touched her and made her breath hitch like this, banished out of her mind. I want to fuck her until there’s nothing left of them in her.
“Tomorrow, every move will remind you of who did this,” I murmur.
I test limits she didn’t know existed, claiming space inside her that she hasn’t dared to explore.
She tries to brace herself, but it doesn’t help.
Then she shoves against me, twisting, her mouth searching.
Oh, she will not make this easy, but she doesn’t get to break the rule.
I pin her down hard, my weight unforgiving. She squirms beneath me, all defiance, but there’s nowhere for it to go. I drive into her with no mercy. I haven’t ever learned it, and I don’t plan to now. It’s punishment, because she needs to feel where the line is and who holds it.
Her cry rips out of her, startled and furious.
So, she didn’t see that coming.
I don’t relent. I seat myself fully, crowding her and claiming every inch she’ll give and then demanding more, telling her I don’t negotiate.
She tries to adjust to the pain, but it stalls halfway. This is new.
I know how to read bodies. How to gauge experience by breath, by tension, and by the way muscles lock or yield. She isn’t na?ve, but this catches her off guard. The fullness, the stretch that borders on too much, and the bite of it that clearly settles where she’s never been pushed before.
But this woman is something.